The Opera Designer
by Shostakovich
Summary: Ever wonder where O. G. could possibly get his clothes?
1. Prologue

Caroline Le Moûel gave a final glance to her mirror before sweeping elegantly to her bedchamber door to accept her husband's arm. He smiled at her, a vision in pale blue silks and white laces. She blushed at his attentions, which still affected her strongly after five years of their matrimony.

"_Mon cher_, are you sure Laureline will be perfectly all right here, alone, with only Signora Lizzino? You know how she frets." Madame Aubin gave a pretty frown to her husband, but Jean-Baptiste Le Moûel only gave a soft chuckle.

"Fret not, Caroline, for Signora Lizzino is a flow of distractions. And nothing bothers Laureline when she draws or paints, and the signora is amorous about all the arts." Jean-Baptiste patted his wife's little hand.

"You are right, as you always are. Now, come, we shall be late. And I long for more practice on my new accent."

The couple shared yet another smile before descending the staircase to their door, a picture of utter beauty and love.

---

Not so lovely was their daughter as she learned her parents had gone out yet again, leaving her with Signora Lizzino for the umpteenth time. Laure-Caroline Le Moûel was anything but lovely when in a rage, and as her parents were climbing into their carriage to go to the party in their finest, Laure-Caroline was in one of her heartiest rages for the month.

Sighing heavily, Signora Lizzino waited patiently for the little girl to finish shouting and raving in a mixture of Italian and French in her astonishingly loud voice.

Now, Signora Lizzino was not a renowned artist for her skill alone, but for her fine teaching and skills in a nursery or schoolroom. But she had certainly met her match in the fiery daughter of two of the sweetest foreigners she'd ever met. Laure-Caroline was as difficult as she was talented, for learning to speak and read two languages fluently by the age of two and a half was no small feat. But she still had much to learn where ladylike behavior was concerned.

Finally, Signora Lizzino spoke. "Signorita, I'm afraid I shall have to lock you in your room alone if you do not desist your ramblings."

Laure-Caroline silenced with this threat, but her eye were still flared with anger. "Maman promised to take me out this week, and only two days remain! She shall not keep her promise, and I shall be dreadfully upset!" She counted the days on her fingers to make sure she was correct, then looked back up accusingly at Signora Lizzino.

"It is not at all my fault, my dear. I shall remind your mother of her promise, fear not."

"Please call me Laureline. Maman and Papa don't call me silly names."

"Of course, Laureline. Now, shall we amuse ourselves in the arts?"

After a semblance of calm swept over them, Signora Lizzino considered her pupil and charge. Laure-Caroline, or Laureline, to be correct, was so very talented, and very loved. The signora felt in a few months, the girl would surpass even her own artistic skills. Yet the girl was so childish at times. Very demanding, she decided.

But why not? A rich young girl like her should not be wanting. Especially for her parents' attentions.

Thus decided Signora Lizzino that Laureline would have her evening with her maman the very next day, if circumstances provided.

---

Laureline was smiling prettily as she fingered the pale green bow in her hair. She was a pleasure to the eyes, Signora Lizzino had declared, and indeed she was. In a crisp white dress with a pale green sash and petticoat, she was a little myriad of a cloud.

And even though she was very young, Laureline still knew she had a handsome little face. And in a mood such as the one she was currently in, she was nothing short of lovely, with a pretty dress and elegant curls done to her hair.

Her dress was also something the young girl loved. She had drawn and painted a picture of such a dress on a girl like herself, and given it to her maman. Mme Le Moûel had immediately sent the picture to her closest acquaintance's dressmaker, a Madame Poindexter, and had received the finished dress inside the season. Now, Laureline was given the dress, much to her delight. To be in one's own idea had been beyond her; now, she reveled in the loveliness of her new frock.

"Bella signorita, your mother waits upon you downstairs."

It was Signora Lizzino, come to gather her for her very first carriage outing in Rome. Laureline twirled once before her long mirror, and then went to her door, satisfied with herself. She took Signora Lizzino's offered hand, and went to meet her maman.

Smiling at Mme Le Moûel was not difficult when Signora Lizzino caught her mistress' eye. The madame's eyes were bright and happy to see her daughter so lovely.

"Signora, is she not lovely," the madame asked. "I daresay we should have given her her creations long before now. My lovely daughter is very talented." Little Laureline blushed before coming and curtsying to her maman. "Is she not an absolute angel!" Mme Le Moûel cried happily.

The two departed soon after Mme Le Moûel finally decided on where to go. There was a lovely parc near the Le Moûel's house where the she loved to go in her carriage rides; she was sure Laureline would enjoy it immensely and said as much to Signora Lizzino, who agreed. "And prettier flowers are to be found nowhere," the signora stated.

Laureline and Mme Le Moûel easily made their way to the garden in the carriage drawn by Vicini, the valet. Their horses, all brown in color, held their heads high as they led the carriage. The afternoon sun was a little harsh, and Mme Le Moûel held a parasol over herself, as did her daughter.

A grand surprise greeted the madame when one of her good acquaintances Signora Gabriel drove by with with her husband. The carriages were stopped, and a few easy words send Vicini back with an empty carriage to the Le Moûel's while Mme Le Moûel and Laureline sat in the Gabriel's carriage.

"My dear Signora Le Moûel, I was just telling Ferruccio how much I longed to meet your daughter. And such a lovely creature! Though I am not so sure about taking her out in society; it can hardly be thought proper to do so, with her so young."

"My Laureline is very much blessed with an advanced mind. She is quite more intelligent than half the young ladies I have seen about in Rome. And do you not like her dress?"

Signora Gabriel turned an eye to Laureline's dress, appreciating the innocent quality it held. "It is of a high quality. I am sure any of my girls would cut a handsome figure in something like it."

"Why, signora, your girls are all over sixteen, are they not?"

"_Si_, but the dress is a very fine cut for such a young girl. Where did you get it?"

"You will be surprised to learn my Laureline designed it." Mme Le Moûel looked proudly at her daughter, who had been talking to Signore Gabriel about his hat but now turned to look at her maman.

"I cannot believe it!" Signora Gabriel exclaimed. "It is of the best fashion and design."

"I painted it, Signora, and then Maman sent it to a dressmaker in Paris to have it made," Laureline said. All eyes turned to her. "It is comfortable, not at all like the stuffy things Signora Lizzino likes me to wear."

"Laureline, Signora Lizzino only gives you the best fashions," her mother cried.

Signore Gabriel seemed much impressed by the little girl. "You are most talented, signorita," he said, "much like our middle daughter is with her music. But I daresay she was not so well-spoken at your tender age."

"I do hope she wasn't. Maman says she wishes i was more immature, so she might manage to do things without my noticing."

Signore Gabriel laughed out loud, and his wife tapped his arm with mock seriousness. "Indeed, my dear, you'd best hope Nave doesn't keep her eyes on us all the time, for she'd be quite unable to take her eyes off all the grand things we did while she was in the schoolroom."

"And now the young miss is out, and very prettily so, I must say. She is a very handsome girl, indeed, as are all your children. A very handsome family you both have." Mme Le Moûel smiled at her friend graciously.

"As do you, my good Parisian friend! Your daughter has the look of a cherub about her, and you and your husband are so very fine in your looks, she is sure to be a beauty."

Mme Le Moûel blushed prettily and patted her daughter's hair as she resumed conversation with Signore Gabriel. "We are both very blessed, indeed, Signora Gabriel. But I am thinking of returning to Paris."

"Oh, no, you mustn't! Why, what shall I do when I am in need of advice as far as fashion is concerned! You know you are the very one I trust on such things, Caroline."

"But there is no one I trust more in the arts than a certain Parisian, and Laureline has far outgrown Signora Lizzini as far as her artistic talent is concerned. She is very young, but far too talented to spend her years with an insufficient tutor."

Signora Gabriel pursed her lips in annoyance. "But surely you will stay for a while longer? And who is your certain Parisian who you are so keen on?" Her eyes sparkled.

"Oh, no, do not think in that direction at all. He is a distant connection of mine on my father's side. His name is Frederick Fontainebleau, and he is renowned throughout all Paris for his elegant designs and music. He would suit Laureline immensely, of that I am certain."

"You will at least send a maid to help her?"

"I have written to M Fontainebleau, and he seems eager to meet my daughter. He has offered the service of two of his servants to attend to her as something of a ward. Their names are Madame Poindexter and her daughter Blanche, or Béatrice, something similar to that."

"You would trust this Frenchman?" Signora Gabriel had never been very kindly towards the French, but took a great exception with the Le Moûels.

"He is my flesh and blood. I would be a fool not to take his offer; he usually charges thrice what he offered my husband and I. Jean-Baptiste and I plan to stay in Rome until her birthday and then sail to France."

"And she will be six, then? She must be six, at least, with her fine tongue."

"Heavens, no. Laureline is at present three years of age, and her birthday is in less than two months."

"I declare! Ferruccio, my dear, were you aware that Caroline's daughter was just three at present?"

"I had no idea, I assure you, for she acts with more sense than most girls of thirteen." Signore Gabriel turned pleasant, surprised eyes to Laureline. "And yet she has a very young set of features, does she not?"

"I am generally held to be rather mature for my age, Signora Gabriel. Most think me to be at least five or six, but I assure you, I am not there quite yet."

She pointedly turned back to Signore Gabriel, who quickly resumed telling her about Switzerland. Signora Gabriel looked at them with a sharp eye for a moment, then turned to her friend. "Signora Le Moûel, I declare I never met a more fascinating child."

"Be very glad of it, for she can be very hard to be a parent too. She takes all things so very seriously."

"But her talent and manners are unparalleled, Caroline, and you should be very proud."

"Indeed I am, but I only hope she does not run amok in Paris."

"Be sure she will not, with someone tied to you by blood watching over her. I am sure the French hold family values high as we do."

"Indeed, Signora, for otherwise, my daughter would be holed up, learning about history and other dreadful things in Lyon or Brittany. That is where we have our French homes," she added.

"You should take care she does not get too ahead of herself, when she is a little older. A girl like that should surely shake all of Paris. All the young men, and the older ones as well, I am sure, will be eager to court her."

"Let us revel in the present, for the moment, and enjoy the qualms of young motherhood, my friend. If Laureline is difficult now, heaven knows how she shall be when she is out."

Madame Le Moûel crossed herself, to Signora Gabriel's amusement. "My dear Caro, nothing pleases me more than the thought of your daughter taking the world by storm. She shall glow in her fine dresses, I'll wager you that. She'll marry fine, she will."

"We can only hope she falls in love with a man of sense and some wealth."

"Maman, do not talk of me in love. I'll never fall in love, if it vexes you so."

"My dear Laureline, _nothing_ would make me more horrified."


	2. Albain IV

_Thirteen Years Later (1870). Paris, France._

"Heaven help you if it's not perfect, you louse."

"Yes, _ma'am_," Albain grumbled.

"Don't 'ma'am' me, Albain, you're not English, and you'd best be thanking God for that little fact."

Albain Cretoux IV chose not to grace his company with a reply which would certainly shock her. His friend (and employer) was not one with which to tease, especially with the gala coming up so soon. She was far more delicate when time pressed.

"And besides, there's the whole matter of Carlotta's hat."

Albain looked up at his friend. Laure-Caroline Le Moûel was perhaps the closest friend Albain had, despite her being six years his junior, a world less mature, and his boss. Laureline, as her friends called her, was currently working at drawing a costume on a large page, intent on her work.

Albain, however, had his head bent over a costume, fixing a small tear on the seam. La Carlotta would not appreciate anything less than perfect, and she didn't seem to like her hat for Act I.

But no one pretended that anyone besides Laureline controlled who wore what in L'Opéra Populaire, and as far as she was concerned, she was a queen of fashion and costume. So Albain merely said, "There's nothing the matter with the hat. It's perfect- very gaudy, just like Elissa the person."

"And Carlotta herself, I'm thinking," Laureline said. Albain hid a smile as he ducked his head over his work. "Besides, anything less wouldn't catch the eye of the audience. And she's likely to walk out, from all the things happening with our dear O. G."

At the mention of the Opera Ghost, Albain could not help but grin. It was almost a joke in the clothing department, for they were all untouched by the goings-on of the stars, and the Opera Ghost apparently found no faults with Laureline's designs, so he left them alone. But he found great annoyance with La Carlotta, L'Opéra's lead soprano, and her haughty character.

Of course, Albain's employer as well found great annoyance with the singer, and her general dislike of Laureline's work. He could not quite understand Carlotta's loathing of Laureline's work, for she made Carlotta look like any part, despite her unfortunate lack of acting skills.

Albain thought it a great pity that Laureline was not blessed with any kind of good voice, for she had a talent of projection that could make one's ears bleed if one annoyed her. But Laureline insisted that she was much happier in the background, where she could pull the strings of opera life unseen and in control. "Like politicians," she had said.

Now, she was regarding her current drawing with a look of distaste. "Albain, come here. Something is wrong with this design." Albain obediently came behind her shoulder, looking with interest at the fine outfit she had drawn. "Look, there is something missing. It seems like just a regular fine outfit."

"What is it to be, Laureline?" Albain said.

"A costume for you for the Masquerade," Laureline said easily. "I have dropped a note to Monsieur Lefèvre, and he has kindly said he plans to have a _bal masque_ at the turn of the year. But this would look horrid on you as it currently is, and since you are very busy, there will be little time to work on it."

"Good lord, it's only July, Le Moûel. You can't seriously think me to start my costume now."

Laureline turned a steely eye on him. He fought the urge to cower. "Don't question my motives, Albain, you are quite foolish there. I know what I am doing. Don't presume to have me expose myself as an idiot to you, for I have no intention of doing so."

"I didn't think you did," Albain said carefully. "But you are amazingly ahead of schedule. Why, I'm in shock as to where you get your timeliness."

"You sound like the stagehands, trying to placate La Carlotta," Laureline smiled. "Come, now, forget all of that. For your costume must be perfect, and six months is hardly enough time to create that."

"God created the world in six days, if you'll care to remember."

"And look at what a mess it is."

"Touché, Laureline. Now come, what flaws could possibly meet your eyes?"

---

Laureline had seen a dashing young man Albain's age pass by her door, and quickly summoned her friend to go and find out his name and reason for being at L'Opéra Populaire. As the two went out, Laureline carefully making sure her dress fell properly down the skirt, they heard M Lefèvre addressing the company, two strange men at his side.

"Albain, do you hear! M Lefèvre is retiring! And to Berlin, of all unhappy places."

"No, it was Australia he said. By the gods, your hearing deserts you. Here, the new managers were in the junk business. I pity them and their lack of experience in this world, they will find life here very frightening. And the young man you saw- why, he is the Viscount de Chagney, our new patron."

"Patron? How amusing, Albain. I swear I never saw such a well-bred gentleman so easygoing with his smiles." Laureline looked at him as he left by them, curious. "He looks very rich," she pointed out to Albain. "It's too bad, his tailor seems to suit him. I could do him better, though."

"Of course." Albain was amused: Laureline was forever criticizing the rest of the world and their less-than-satisfactory clothing. "Meanwhile, shall we return to your- Ah, I see they are continuing with rehearsals."

"Let us watch what spectacles happen here, with Carlotta and her lovely hat," Laureline said, mischievous. She watched the managers complimenting the ballet to Madame Giry, the dance teacher. "Ha," she breathed to Albain, "those two men are very low in the choice of women. If I were he, I would be gawking after La Carlotta."

"You forget, _my dear_, how much older men like revealing outfits."

"I do no such thing, _darling_, seeing as I made those slave costumes like that for a reason," she hissed with an easy smile to hide her venom.

Laureline watched Madame Giry carefully, glad that she failed to mention L'Opéra's designer. The elephant rolled on stage, and Laureline hid a smile behind her hand as she watched Piangi, the lead tenor, trying to hoist himself up.

When the last note finished ringing, Laureline and Albain easily waited for La Carlotta to make a scene. "Lord, what a hilarious scandal," Albain breathed into her ear. "I never met such a high-strung woman."

"You don't know me very well, that is clear," Laureline whispered back. "Oh, and there she is again about that lovely hat. Why, she's leaving! How funny." They watched as the diva left, shouting annoyingly as the new managers fawned over her, trying to get her to return.

"They will have her sing the aria from Act III, Laureline," Albain said. "Very badly, I am sure."

"No, it's not her voice that is so very bad. It is her screechy way of using it, that is all."

"Why, I thought you knew nothing of music!"

"Indeed, no, for I play the flute a little."

"A little, I am sure it is just a little, with you going on about screech-"

A scream echoed as a large backdrop fell to the ground, landing atop La Carlotta and pinning her leg. In the pandemonium which ensued, Laureline and Albain, both sat turned away with their fists in their mouths. They were both heartily amused.

"You two! Not again," groaned a voice. "Would you not care at all if she were to be seriously hurt? Honestly."

It was Annie Cretoux, one of the dancers, and a cousin of Albain's. Annie was also a close friend of Laureline's, despite being two years her senior. She stood, bedecked in her slave's costume and ballet slippers, with her arms akimbo, and her pretty, mature face worked into a frown as she saw Carlotta leaving.

"Should you care? For, look, she is away, and O. G. has saved us from her stupidity."

"Laure-Caroline Le Moûel, I am ashamed. Do not speak that way again." Madame Giry quickly passed the trio, holding a white envelope in her grasp.

"Look, it is a letter from the Opera Ghost," Annie whispered as Madame Giry addressed the new managers. Laureline and Albain exchanged glances and grins. "But it's nothing he's not said before, just about his salary and his box."

"Why should he want Box 5? There is an unquestionably better view from simply backstage," Laureline said, smiling widely.

"Oh, you are infuriating, Laure."

"But who will sing her part? There's no understudy."

Madame Giry, however, had a solution that she said immediately after Albain whispered his question. "Christine Daee could sing it, sir."

One of the new managers looked at a young dancer with great skepticism. "A chorus girl? Don't be silly."

"Let her sing for you, monsieur. She has been well taught." Madame Giry beckoned Christine Daee forward. Laureline noted the girl's fine figure and exceptionally lovely, innocent features. When she began to sing, Laureline immediately clapped her hands together silently.

"I must go, the costumes will need alterations."

"What?" Albain followed her, rather dazed by the beauty of Christine Daee and her angelic voice.

"Lord above, Albain, don't fall in love with her, for I'd have to fire you straightaway. And you know how I depend on you for some things. Besides, you deserve much better. She looks as though she's got very little wit about her, all innocence and young beauty that she is. They're hardly ever of good mind. But she'll dazzle the crowd, no worries."

"None at all, for she's quite dazzled all the men in the cast and crew."

Albain walked quicker to catch up to Laureline and hooked her arm gallantly through his. She snorted, very unladylike, but let him be chivalrous. "Go amuse yourself with Jean and Annie. I'll come down directly."

"I'll wait for you."

"Don't bother, I must pen a letter to a customer."

"Mine?"

"Afraid so, Albain. Now shoo, before the whole world knows my dirty secret."

"Of course." Albain went off, thinking how lovely it would be to wear a fine outfit like the one he'd wear for the Masquerade. Perhaps he'd be lucky to get a dance with Meg Giry. He knew she was much more to his liking than that Christine Daee, with her big fawn eyes and brown hair. No, Albain was quite content to fall in love with Meg Giry, if it got that far.

But then, he would remember Madame Giry, and quell all thoughts of the blond dancer. He wouldn't want a mother in law such as her for all the world.

Oh yes, what was that clever joke Laureline had told him one?

"Why did Adam live so long? Because he had no mother-in-law."


	3. M Dupoint

The small chapel was one of the simplest rooms in L'Opéra, as far as gaudiness was concerned. The only other thing that matched it was the small room far above with the ropes to manage the chandelier, and that had a sloping roof and a splintery wooden floor. No, Laureline far preferred the chapel, as pacing it barefoot did not lead to bits of wood stuck into her feet, as had happened in the chandelier loft.

Laureline Le Moûel sat in front of the candles, casually lighting one with a match on each side of the holy painting. The two blew a little in the dank room, but Laureline took no notice. She stood after placing the match on the smooth, stone floor, pressing a hand to her knee. She was quite sore from having helped pin all of La Carlotta's _Hannibal_ costumes to perfectly fit Christine Daae, who possessed a less curvaceous figure.

Laureline had never exchanged a word with the new prima soprano, but she knew from her friend Annie that Christine was a dreamy girl who cared little for anything but music. This was fortunate for Laureline, who found that Carlotta's much hated hat did not coordinate half so well with Christine's delicate coloring. If the colors in her hat were a little off, so be it; Christine Daae would not care a jot.

Sighing, Laureline returned her mind to the present, and the fact that the gala was starting in less than a quarter-hour. She stood, head bowed, hands pressed together, as she started her pre-show ritual. After beginning, she lowered herself to her knees.

"Excuse me, _Dieu_, for as you know, the gala is today. It is very, very soon, and I do hope you set your whole being into our performance, so that we might be able to continue to employ some of those who would have no home otherwise. Please bless all of the singers, dancers, and stage hands with talent, luck, and easiness. Take away their fears and let them be happy and-"

"Do you often speak out loud to your inexistent Lord on high?" A soft voice cut like steel through Laureline's monologue to God. She snapped her head up, frowning angrily.

But her face curled into a smile when she saw one of her private customers, the only one whose identity she did not know. She recalled their first meeting now, and how she'd come to be so lucky as to received his good graces.

----

_2 July 1864. Paris, France._

Laureline gasped as she opened the small box. "Albain," she breathed, "it's beautiful." She lifted a small mannequin, wearing a tiny black dress embroidered with gold flowers. The face was painted like a china doll, with a crown of black hair and pink cheeks. The little mannequin had a lovely smile and a pair of real satin gold slippers on her tiny feet.

"It took me a little while, but I made it. You only become a double-digit once in a lifetime, you know." Albain Cretoux squeezed his employer-friend's shoulders easily. He was sixteen, and she had just turned ten, but they were great friends.

"I can scarcely believe it, you do much better work than half the grown-ups I've met," Laureline said, still in awe of her gift. "I shall put it on my desk, next to the little cat you gave me last year."

"An excellent idea. And I'll get get back to work." He bowed a little to her, and went over to his chair as she made her way into her little private office off of the tailoring-room.

The doll was the loveliest thing she'd ever seen, and it was for her! Handmade by a friend, just for her. She closed the door, and leaned against it, caressing the paint on the tiny face. "You shall be Christine-Baptiste, after my father." Laureline placed the newly baptized Christine-Baptiste on her desk next to the similarly made cat, who had been named Cielinni after her mother's mother's maiden name.

Then, she noticed a curious thing: in the middle of her badly organized desktop lay a crisp, white envelope addressed in red to Madamoiselle Le Moûel. Laureline was instantly intrigued, and glanced around surreptitiously before taking out her letter-opener, decorated with a white porcelain rose. After she'd split the envelope, she took out the letter.

_To Mlle L.-C. Le Moûel:_

_Fondest greetings. I have for some time been watching your progress in your designs, and have found I desire to become a customer of yours. I know of your private customers, and wish to become one of them. My only requirement is that you allow me to conceal my identity._

_To accept this gracious offer, merely say so (aloud, if you please). I shall answer straightaway._

Laureline looked very suspiciously around her, then alighted on the darkest corner, in which she had a screen in case someone needed to try on a costume. After a moment, she decided it could do no harm to provide someone with the very best clothes.

"I accept, of course."

"Very good, Mlle Le Moûel." A man of impressive height stepped from behind the screen. He wore a somewhat out-of-fashion suit in black with an off-white shirt beneath it. Most of his face was covered with a black leather mask, but he seemed (to Laureline) to have even features and cool, appraising eyes. His skin was pale, and his hair was black. "Please call me Monsieur Dupoint."

"Of course, M Dupoint. Enchantée." Laureline eyed his outfit. "And please, never wear that offensive color again."

Monsieur Dupoint paused a moment. "I beg your pardon, Mlle Le Moûel."

"That hideous excuse for a white. You have very fine coloring, not so unlike mine, and I would never wear such a creamy color. I'll have you into pure white in an instant, if you don't mind."

"Ah. But have I been misinformed? Even Madame Giry has a personal tailor." The masked M Dupoint smirked slightly when she eyed him cautiously, both at his extensive knowledge about her business and his abrupt change of topic.

"Yes, yes, I am sorry. Hide behind that screen again, would you, monsieur?"

He obliged with an incline of his head, and Laureline called out, "Albain? Come in here, please."

Albain entered, his dark red-brown hair falling into his forehead. "Yes, Laureline?" At her motion, he shut the door behind him, curiosity peaked.

"Undoubtedly, you've heard from the other seamstresses and tailors that I have some private customers."

"I had heard of it, everyone in the department knows. No one outside of it does, though, of that I'm sure." Albain was slightly uncomfortable as Laureline looked him over.

"Hmm. Only five are supposed to so far, but right now, you're number six. Would you like to be personal tailor to a new client I've just acquired?" Albain considered, then nodded carelessly.

"I hope it is a man, though. And one who likes nice, layered, fine outfits."

"How very correct you are." M Dupoint came out from behind the screen, towering slightly over the adolescent Albain, who was still not at his complete height yet. "I am Monsieur Dupoint, and you are?"

"Albain Cretoux IV. Enchantée."

M Dupoint scowled at Laureline. "Do all you sewers say that? I cannot imagine being enchanted to make my acquaintance."

"It is the polite way, at least as far as my class is concerned. But I am generally held to go in the best circles, as far as my family is concerned. And Albain, well, he has known me for a good two years, monsieur, and he has picked up some of my habits. Fortunately, he's avoided the bad ones."

Neither Laureline nor M Dupoint smiled during this little speech, but Albain hid a grin. "Albain, nothing is amusing," Laureline said to him. "Why do you smile?"

"Oh, nothing, only you two are so proper, and here are you, this little sprig of a ten-year-old, and here's this tall genteel person, talking like equals. And he's so unfashionable, I don't know how you can bear to look at him, knowing you."

"Albain!" Laureline gasped.

But M Dupoint let a rumbling laugh fill the room. The sound was unnatural, like it rarely happened. "I assure you, M Cretoux, I will be quite fashionable when your employer is done with me."

"Of course you shall." Laureline spoke up, recovered from the shock of Albain's blunt comment. "Now, Albain, get the stool. M Dupoint, please take off that offensive jacket."

"_Excusez-moi_?" M Dupoint looked quite offended.

"We must get your proper measurements, which is hardly possible when you're wearing that bulky coat." Laureline held out her hand for the coat, which M Dupoint uneasily gave her. Laureline smiled easily. He might be quite nervous around two young people, but he knew who was in charge here.

As Laureline fetched her measuring tape and Albain sat himself at the desk with a fresh bit of paper, M Dupoint set himself on the stool. Frowning slightly, Laureline then fetched a chair from a corner and set it near him. "Now, put out your arms. Lord, that shirt is so annoying. Quite unflattering."

Laureline continued in her mindless banter as she measured his arms, head, torso, and legs. She called out measurements to Albain, who copied it all down with precision. Finally, she said, "One left, but Albain's going to do it."

"Hm?" Albain looked up from the page, then stood. "Oh right." He took the measuring tape, and measured from M Dupoint's shoulder through his legs and back up to his shoulder, calling out the measurement. "_Nous avons fini_!" he said in triumph.

M Dupoint stepped nimbly off the stool to look at the sheet of measurements, shocked at the semblance of disorder the list gave. "How do you understand this, Mlle Le Moûel?"

"It's a system I created to make it easier." Laureline was pleased she'd confused a man who seemed very, very smart, and had even made him so unsure that he'd had to ask. "And now, I must ask you to take your leave. My mother and father are arriving shortly from Italy to celebrate my birthday with me, and I must put on something a little more formal so I can see the opera tonight."

M Dupoint eyed Laureline's green frock, and humphed a reply. He bowed to her, nodded to Albain, and left.

Albain followed him out through the sewing room, and opened the door seconds after it had closed. He looked back to Laureline, and said, "Gosh, he's gone."

Laureline smiled. She knew it.

He was _magical_.

---

Laureline now stood easily, arranging her skirts around her in a semblance of neatness. "M Dupoint! I was not expecting to see you."

"I must confess, you should know by now I don't like to be called that." M Dupoint, or 'Erik', as he liked Laureline to call him, smiled gracefully as he leaned against the wall with his arms crossed.

"_Désolée_, Erik," Laureline said. "But you're very old, compared to me. It's only polite."

"Nonsense," M Dupoint, Erik, said. "I'm not going grey yet."

"You could dye your hair with ink, monsieur- Erik, I mean, and none would be the wiser." Laureline smiled. "But enough of that. Tell me, why on earth do you have no faith? God cannot have been so very unkind to you; you overpay me often."

Erik's jaw clenched momentarily. Laureline pretended she had not seen. "Granted, madamoiselle, you always see fit to return it to me. And do not speak of what you know nothing about."

"Then I suggest you hold your tongue about faith in the Lord, since you obviously are quite ignorant on the subject."

Erik felt rather like he had the time when he was assaulted with rocks from a jeering crowd, only Laureline was just one girl hurling words. And she only was cruel to him when she thought he was to her; he could not complain of unfair treatment.

"Of course, madamoiselle." Erik's tone was steely now. "But now we must talk business. As you know, there shall be a masquerade for the turn of the year."

"Oh, if you want me to make you a costume, I'm afraid you'll have to wait. It's a horrible habit of mine to give gifts, you know, and I've begun to feel like you are a friend, so I thought it only natural I do something for you without compensation. And Albain agrees with me, so you shall have to wait until December for your costume. I know you shall like it."

Nothing could have assured Erik more than Laureline's last words.

Laureline heard footsteps, somewhere, as she smiled with her and Erik's gazes fixed. She gasped. "They will find you, and what will become of me! Quick, you must go. _Au revoir_, Erik."

Erik spontaneously kissed her hand and disappeared into the shadows. Laureline, slightly surprised, spun to face Albain. "They're starting. And one of the dancers ripper her costume."

"Oh no, hurry, Albain, we shall have to fix it-"

"It is already fixed, do not worry. Everything shall go beautifully, thanks to your handiwork. Now come."

Laureline let herself be led away to the glamour of backstage.


	4. A finelooking pair

Disclaimer (gasp): Original characters and plot belong to me. The end.

* * *

Laureline sat at her desk, penning a letter to her Maman. She had not written her for a long, two and a half month period that had been filled with the preparations for _Hannibal_. Now, the gala was over, Christine Daae had mysteriously disappeared, and Laureline had received yet another amorous letter from a man she'd never met.

Her mysterious suitor, who called himself Luc, sent her letters more often than could have possibly replied, if she had known to whom replies should have been sent.

But Laureline dismissed these thoughts from her head as she reread her letter.

_Chère Maman,_

_We have enjoyed a wonderful success at the gala two days ago. La Carlotta, however, was indisposed of sorts and was substituted by one Mlle Christine Daae, who Albain Cretoux says is the daughter of a Swedish violinist. The reviews were splendid, and everyone was much pleased._

_Monsieur Lefèvre, however, has passed ownership of L'Opéra onto two men of the junk business, Messieurs Gilles André and Richard Firmin. Our new patron, the Viscount de Chagny and his parents, are very wealthy and quite appreciative of the arts. I have not spoken to him yet, but Albain who has assures me he is of the kindest nature._

_There has been a small scandal here, however, despite our success. Christine Daae, who sang the lead at the gala in _Hannibal_, has mysteriously disappeared. A lot of people suspect the viscount is her lover, but I think that's as far from the truth as can be. M le Viscount seems respectable as can be._

_And as to how I have been these past months? I have been well, very well indeed, Maman. Nothing very wonderful nor terrible has happened, and I bask in the normalcy that opera life offers. Design clothes, help make clothes. Repeat. It is simple and easy, and the secret customers I entertain myself with add a bit of spice to life. I have not gained any new clients for a long time, and have no desire to. All my best tailors already work for one of my customers, and the others I do not trust to do their best. Albain's mysterious customer continues to accept my services, and I am sure he is glad of it. He seems to be very well off, but he is quite melancholy and ungodly. He seems to find our Lord to be an unforgiving, cruel tyrant of sorts. I find his lack of faith astonishing, and have been hard-pressed to find out why. At present, I know very little of M Dupoint, excepting his measurements and some points of view about L'Opéra._

_I beseech you, come to visit us soon. I am quite eager to see you and Papa again, and Monsieur Fontainebleau expresses a desire to see all of us together. He is a wonderful man, and I find it a great pity he is so consumed with his work. I am sure he would be a wonderful man to help here if he were not so attached to remain an independent fashioner._

_Nothing pleases me more, however, than the hope of seeing you again. I despair in this constant company of actors and stagehands; life has grown nearly dull in the same company. If not for Albain and his cousin Annie, I am sure I should perish in boredom. And speaking of Annie Cretoux, she has become engaged to a dancer named Jean. I am not sure of his surname, but he is a most respectable young man, and I am assured of their future happiness._

_As to myself, do not feel distressed. I am perfectly content with my current situation as far as romance is concerned, and if it gives you any reprieve from your constant worry, I have been receiving letters of somewhat amorous intent from a man named Luc Neyrey. If you know of him, please send me information about him as quick as may be. I have never heard of him, but he attends every performance (he says it is under a different name) and knows that I am recently seventeen, and he calls me smart and a creator of beauty! Imagine, Maman, that I know we have never met. I cannot help but wonder if it is some scandalous trick or if this Luc does, indeed, find me so very amazing._

_Aside from Luc Neyrey, no other men seem in the least interested in me. I have suspected Albain, but he denies it. I have noticed he is increasingly interested in a certain dancer, Meg Giry, and he was very taken by Miss Daae when he first heard her sing._

_But do not worry for my happiness, Maman, I never have desired you to become vexed because of love on my account. As long as you and Papa are well and happy, I am happy._

_And on this note, I bid you Adieu._

_Je t'embrasse,_

_Laureline._

Laureline sighed. She wondered if telling her Maman (and, inadvertently, her papa) about Luc Neyrey was a good idea, but she knew it had to be done eventually. And now that she was seventeen and officially out, it had to be said suitors were expected to come her way.

Laureline had never been one for suitors nor being out; she was much happier to be in her office, drawing or playing flute or talking to Albain or Annie. But now, Monsieur Fontainebleau insisted that she come with him to parties and afternoon tea, as a cousin. 'Uncle Frederick' was a kind man with deep pockets, and he managed to whisk Laureline away from L'Opéra at least twice a week since her birthday in early July.

Although Laureline appreciated M Fontainebleau's concern for her reputation and life in society, she could not help but be a little downcast at the time away from her work. But she could not say no.

Fortunately, she had not men any young men that were delighted or at all moved by her in a romantic way. She had made acquaintances with a few charmingly clever men, although all but one were much older than she.

The one that was not much older was none other than Albain's eldest brother, who had long been away in Switzerland doing affairs of state. He had come often to L'Opéra to visit Albain and her during the day, and Laureline enjoyed his company immensely. His name was Joël Cretoux, and he had the same red-brown hair as his younger brother.

Laureline had to admit Albain and Joël made a very fine-looking pair. Albain was boyishly slim with a youthful look about him, even though he was already twenty-two, while Joël was stately and handsome. And they had the same lively eyes, brown in colour and full of ease. Indeed, Laureline would be quite content to paint them together, save for the fact that Albain was very mobile.

So for the meantime, Laureline was content to begin a painting of the brothers from memory. She felt a long-needed bit of serenity take hold in her mind as she gathered her brushes and palette. She moved from her desk and stood in front of her easel.

She made outlines of them in a rich brown-blue, Albain-to-be sitting casually in a chair and Joël-to-be standing slightly to the side. Joël's hand rested on the back of Albain's chair, making Albain the major focus, but the way Albain's arm rested drew an invisible line towards Joël as well.

After painting with base tones, Lisette left her easel to let the paint dry and sat once again at her desk, pulling out a thick piece of watercolor paper and pulling out her best brushes, a set she'd received from her 'uncle' Frederick Fontainebleau.

She sat back, and bit then end of a nib holder she often liked to chew on when she thought. She used it for writing letters occasionally, and more often than not it lay forgotten behind her two most cherished gifts, the figurines from Albain.

But now, she held it in her mouth like an unlit cigar and mixed her watercolors to paint a new scene that stood in her mind from a memory.

In it, there was a small carriage with two women, a man, and a girl. Laureline recalled herself and her mother, and a Signore and Signora Gabriel; her three-year old self had been wearing a white dress with a green sash that had been her first self-created dress.

She began with a gravel drive, the tiny stones each a single dab of the wet color, and made a group of horses that pranced under the direction of a dignified driver. Laureline fancied his name was Paolo, and that he had run away from barbaric Southern Spain to live a cultured life in Italy with a secret love named Carlita.

She stood then, having decided to resume Joël and Albain's portrait, and turned, only to find someone standing not three inches away from her.

"Good God!" Laureline cried- or more appropriately, would have cried, if the person hadn't covered her mouth with his hand. She realized who it was, and relaxed. M Erik Dupoint removed his hand from her mouth. "M Dupoint- Erik," she amended. "Why must you always sneak up on me? You might have made me ruin my paintings."

M Dupoint smiled, eyes glittering. Laureline noticed his mask was a little crisper than usual.

"Why, did you get a new mask? How is it I didn't know about it? Have you been sneaking to other people?"

"I did make a new mask, and that is all three answers in one."

"You still could be sneaking to other designers," Laureline said, sounding hurt. Erik laughed almost darkly. Laureline gave a heavy sigh.

"What is it you want today, Erik?"

"Why, whatever is the matter, Mlle Le Moûel? You sound quite exhausted."

"I am, so don't ask me for something unreasonable."

"Have I ever?"

"No, but please do not start now." Laureline scowled at his hearty laugh. "You've interrupted my painting; I haven't painted for weeks."

"You are quite good." Erik looked at the picture she had started on her easel. "Is this-"

"Albain in the chair, and his older brother. What do you want? I'm in no good mood."

"I would like to get your measurements, madamoiselle."

Laureline looked at him with great amusement. "Why, whatever for?"

"I am going to make you a gown for the masquerade."

---

Laureline did not know what possessed her to let Erik measure her, but she felt a little redeemed by insisting that she write it down in her own system, and then teach it to him.

"What next?"

Erik had just measured her arms, and Laureline said, "Waist. But I'm wearing a corset, does that make a difference?"

"Only if you won't wear it the same way for the masquerade."

Laureline thought for a moment, then nodded. "I'll make it tighter, but I'll need Albain to do it for me. I can't do it myself; tying knots has never been my strong point."

Erik cleared his throat awkwardly. "I can do it for you, if you like-"

"Thank you! That would be excellent. Then I can surprise Albain when he sees my costume. What will I be, Erik?"

"A secret, madamoiselle," Erik said, his eyes twinkling. Lisette stuck her tongue out at him before ducking behind the screen. The rustle of fabric filled the new silence.

After a minute Laureline stuck her head out. "Can you help me?" Erik started, then nodded. He went over to her, and she swung out the screen to make room for both of them while still concealing her from her door in case someone should enter.

Laureline noticed Erik was strangely stiff, and she sent him a grateful smile. "I'm sorry, this must be awkward for you."

Erik went red under his black mask. "Rather," he agreed. Laureline was wearing a white under shift that fell only a little down her thighs and high socks that hugged her legs. Her corset wrapped around her, making her slimmer than should have been completely natural. But she was in perfect comfort, it seemed.

"Could you just tighten it a little bit? As far as these things are concerned, a little goes a long way," she said, trying to ease the tension. He laughed, agreeing. Erik worked for less than thirty seconds; after that, he fetched the measuring tape and measured her waist before putting it back to how it had been.

Laureline breathed a little easier. "Thank you so much, Erik," she said. "I'm sorry I'm not more adept with my own clothes."

"No worries, madamoiselle," Erik said. He went back around the curtain while Laureline put her dress back on, and when she came back out, pinning up her hair, he smiled. "Now, show me how to write the measurements in your strange way."

Laureline was all too happy to comply.


End file.
